


Via Con Me

by Naemi



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mystery, Thriller, Trick Or Treat C/Z Halloween Grab Bag, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troubled Casey meets Zeke, a mysterious stranger, who eventually introduces him to a wild and cool-kid city life. While Casey's behavior becomes weirdly unpredictable, tragedy ensues as his friends try to get to the bottom of Zeke's secrets, sensing that there is much more to him than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Via Con Me

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Beta:** [](http://aliensouldream.livejournal.com/profile)[**aliensouldream**](http://aliensouldream.livejournal.com/) (full final beta)  
>  **A/N:** Written in response to [](http://aliensouldream.livejournal.com/profile)[**aliensouldream**](http://aliensouldream.livejournal.com/) 's Trick or Treat C/Z Halloween grab bag.  
>  **Credits:** [](http://honeyandvinegar.livejournal.com/profile)[**honeyandvinegar**](http://honeyandvinegar.livejournal.com/) had the idea, and [**Moit**](http://archiveofourown.com/users/Moit) and [](http://panmodal.livejournal.com/profile)**[panmodal](http://panmodal.livejournal.com/)** joined in general brainstorming. I'm sorry it's taking quite a different direction now. Also thanks to my parents for adding the final touch.  
>  Inspiration found in (and title(s) taken from) _Paolo Conte's[Via Con Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2uj4pUD7YwI)_.  
>  **Status:** finished 10/31/2012—1/x chapters completed  
>  **Disclaimer:** View [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/662465).
> 
> Story also available at [my LiveJournal](http://naemi.livejournal.com/110686.html).

 

 _[Away with me. Get away from here.]_  
~~~

“I'm so sorry, Casey.”

“No. You don't have to be. I understand. Of course you'd go with Stan.” Casey succeeded in smiling at her.

“Are you—“

“It's okay. Really. I'm okay, don't worry.”

Stokely's eyes followed Casey as he walked past her, down the corridor and out of the school doors. Her own heart was heavy from disappointing him; there was no need to look at his face to know how hurt he felt.

“Did you tell him?” Stan's voice reached her from behind. She smiled briefly as he slid one arm around her waist, but she freed herself the next moment, turning around to face him.

“Yes,” she said, searching for Stan's eyes.

“How did he take it?”

She shrugged. “What do you think? He has counted on me for like . . . well, forever.”

“He must have noticed that you do have a boyfriend now, though.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Stan. I'm not in the mood.”

He raised his hands in defense. “I'm not being sarcastic,” he said emphatically, then his voice went softer as he continued: “Look, I know how much you hate to break a promise. I know you have given said promise years ago, and it seemed likely none of you would ever _have_ to break it. So, okay, it sucks. But as much as I really like Casey—this is our senior prom. Please weigh it.”

“I'm not saying I'd rather go with him, silly. What I mean is . . . I hurt him, Stan. He's the fuck alone. And after all he's been through in this past year, I feel twice as deceitful for letting him down.”

”Yeah. I know.”

“I wish we could help him.”

“So do I,” Stan agreed, leaning in to kiss Stokely's forehead.

~ ~ ~

Casey didn't even bother to check whether the front door was properly shut. He felt miserable, and if someone would just now decide to come into the house and do him harm—well, he'd be fucking ready. But of course lightning never strikes twice.

He dumped his messenger bag in the hallway, knowing his father would scold him for it later. A part of him considered to go back and pick it up, but he dismissed it. However much irrational the thought might be, he still felt better with every step that separated him from the bag that seemed too much a symbol for this day's weight on his shoulders.

Once upstairs, Casey stopped and closed his eyes, listening. The house was as empty and silent as it had been ever since his mother was gone. Generally, he was beyond the point where it seriously hurt to think of her, but right now his wish to only as much as hear her light footsteps was overwhelming enough to finally bring tears to his eyes.

Casey proceeded to the bathroom, the only place in the world where he could lock himself in and all thoughts out.

~ ~ ~

The thought of _a new day, a new chance_ chased Casey out of bed early this Saturday morning, yet late enough to avoid his taciturn father hiding behind his newspaper, and he was thankful for that. Their relationship, although at first strengthened after the tragedy, was cooling off lately. While it increased Casey's general level of loneliness, he could not deny the freedom that came with it. Mr. Connor had been protective and strict before, way more than necessary, but now he seemed to let go—whether out of trust or disinterest, Casey couldn't tell. He decided to believe in the first.

Whatever the cause, the fact was that Casey was allowed out without much of a fuss, and he didn't need to announce—and receive permission for—every step he wanted to take or every dollar he planned on spending as he long as he behaved reasonable and adult.

This morning, Casey had no special plans. The sun shone brightly, promising a beautiful day and good light conditions for outdoor picture taking, if he'd find something that provided inspiration. He wandered around aimlessly, but soon his feet led Casey into the park and he realized it only when he stood in front of the old wooden bridge, a relict of the time when there had been a big pond. It was long gone, but the story behind it was passed on, well-known Herrington folklore, so to say.

In 1973, the naked bodies of three high school students were found floating in the water, their dead eyes wide open, staring into the sky. At first it was assumed that they must have partied too hard, taking fashionable psychedelic drugs. As a result, their nightly swim had ended fatally. But the coroner couldn't confirm this theory, and neither find signs of drowning, use of violence nor any other hint as to the cause of their deaths. In the end, due to the lack of significant evidence, it was declared cardiac failure in all cases, the file was closed, the dead buried. However much the bereaved fought and pleaded for truth and justice, it was never granted. In a quick decision, the town council voted for closing the pond, filling it up with soil and cover the place with greenery, and that was about all the compensation offered.

Why the old bridge, crooked and not particularly beautiful, had become part of the new trail instead of being torn down remained just another mystery. Old-fashioned gas lamps framed the far ends, and all along the railings couples had incised their names, immortalized their love.

Despite the flowerbeds and gazebo and all the other efforts put into brightening up the area, it gave Casey the creeps, especially in the darkness. Still, there was also a haunting fascination emanating from the place, a loneliness which he felt connected to. And in the bright daylight, there was nothing to be afraid of.

Casey had never before considered to take pictures here, thought it somewhat tactless in regard to the history, but today, it seemed like the right thing to do. Why not try and capture perfect solitude.

~ ~ ~

The low voice, breaking in on Casey's thoughts, startled him. He spun around, finding himself watched by a shadowed figure underneath the trees. His heart skipped a beat.

“What was that?”

“I said: what a perfectly lovely view.” The stranger stepped out of the treeline and into the sunlight. He was tall, dark-haired and of a fair complexion. His lips wore a winning smile, but his eyes seemed as black and bottomless as the Caesar Creek at its deepest point, even when he was only at arm's length away.

Casey took a step back on impulse.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just passing by and . . . I noticed how focussed you were. It impressed me. It's rare to see someone your age taken up fully in a creative passion.”

“Well . . . thank you . . . I guess,” Casey stammered, aware of the heat that crawled up his cheeks. He wasn't used to getting compliments, and he was not sure either whether this was one, but he definitely acknowledged the friendliness in the stranger's voice. He took a closer look, realizing that he didn't seem much older than Casey himself, despite wearing an air of _experience_.

Before he could stop his mouth from forming the words, Casey blurted: “How old are you?”

The boy laughed. It was a surprisingly soft sound, like fluid silver.

“I'm sorry,” Casey hurried to say, strangely afraid to chase him away.

“And I'm Zeke,” the boy answered, all laughter now reduced to his eyes.

_How could I think they were black? They have the color of ground cinnamon._

Casey caught himself staring and quickly lowered his gaze. He was confused; there was something about this Zeke person that drew his attention, wanted to connect. At the same time, though, Casey couldn't help the presentiment of trouble. Maybe because this guy had popped out of nowhere. Maybe because he'd had the nerve to watch him—and admit it—in a very private moment. But most likely because he was damned attractive, and that stirred something inexpressible in Casey.

“Will you tell me your name?” Zeke asked, leaning against the railing. “Or is it a secret?”

“Casey.”

“The brave.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's what it means. Brave. Vigilant. Didn't you know?”

“I had no idea.” Casey smiled at the thought. He was far from being considered a brave person, but he liked the new-found _significance_ his name bore. “That's cool.” His smile grew even wider, and he lifted the camera up to take a snapshot of something—anything—just to hide his face.

Zeke didn't take notice, or pretended not to. He turned away to look down the path leading over the bridge and to the east side of the park where the hushed noises of a playground mixed with the nearby Main Street traffic.

“This is a strange place,” he said quietly. “It seems so abandoned, despite it's obviously being tended and kept clean and such . . . But still. Something is not quite right.”

“You're not from around here, hm?”

“I was born in Herrington, but I haven't been here in a long time.”

“Have you ever heard the story about this place?”

“The murders?” Zeke asked, and his voice adopted an undertone of tension.

“No murders. Just—deaths. I think.”

“Do you? How can you know for certain?” Zeke turned back around, fixing his unreadable gaze on Casey. His eyes seemed much darker again, as if clouded, resembling the color of polished Obsidian. “Have you been there? Did you witness the incident?”

“No. No, of course not. How absurd.” Casey laughed shakily. All of a sudden, he felt the eeriness of this place crawl under his skin, saw it reflected in Zeke's eyes, and the wish to run away became overwhelming. He tried to swallow it down, literally so, and fumbled with the lens cap. “Well, anyway . . . I oughta go. I got . . . plans.”

“Really? How disappointing. I hoped you might show me around. I don't recognize most of what I see.”

“I don't know. My dad will be mad if I don't return soon.”

“Did I scare you?”

“No,” Casey replied firmly, furrowing his brow.

“I did. Again. And again, it was not my intention.” Zeke's whole expression softened, the tension was gone. “It's my fate, I think. People often mistake my passion for a threat.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, offering Casey, who turned it down. With a shrug, Zeke lit one, inhaling deeply. “I hoped I could buy you a coffee or something, but I messed up, didn't I?”

Casey shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to reply. True, Zeke had _not_ threatened him in any way, yet his caprices, if they were to return, did at least require getting used to. Not that Casey meant to get used to anything. But it wouldn't hurt to be friendly—and maybe a little watchful—and with all due honesty, it simply felt nice to have someone to talk to, someone who was fascinating enough to influence Casey's mood by only the sound of his voice and the look on his face.

“As I said, I can't stay out too long. But maybe a little longer.”

“Long enough for a coffee?”

“Long enough for a coffee.”

Zeke's smile was sincere and very, very contagious.

~ ~ ~

Casey stayed out much longer than only for a coffee. He took Zeke to Langley's Bakery, his favorite little place in town, and there they chatted for hours on end with an easiness that Casey found surprising, yet not questionable. They had so much in common: Casey captured the world in photographs, Zeke in paintings. Both of them had a great understanding and interest in science, they liked the same books, had a fannish crush on the same actress. And both of them shared the loss of a parent.

When the bakery closed, they took a walk around town. Zeke didn't recognize much, if anything, but since he had left before his seventh birthday, it wasn't really surprising. Their tour eventually led to the movie theater, and Zeke suggested to watch the latest horror film, a serial killer fling that Casey found a little disturbing, but still quite enjoyable. Afterwards, they shared a pizza, and after _that_ they found themselves on a park bench, still chatting, still sharing more and more of their lives. Zeke proved to be a good listener, and for the first time since his mother died, Casey could talk it all off of his chest without feeling silly or childish, especially when tears were involved. He felt understood, and he probably was.

Zeke's mood didn't swing again throughout the day. In fact, he was as good-humored as a single person can be, and Casey let his cheerfulness in, soaked it up like a sponge to make it his own.

By the end of the night, when Zeke walked him home, Casey was more in high spirits than he remembered to ever have been before in his entire life.

This changed in a snap, however, as Casey, upon entering the house, was greeted by his father's thundering voice.

“Where in all hell have you been? How dare you come home this late?”

“I was out. With a friend,” Casey hurried to say, much more self-confident than he felt.

“Out? With a friend? Out. With. A. _Friend?_ ”

Casey saw the anger rise in his father's face, saw the clench of his fists, of his jaw, noticed his frontal vein swelling and pulsing, and he knew from experience that he was in _very_ serious trouble. He gritted his teeth, trying his best to look remorseful and ashamed, tactics that used to be helpful.

“What friend? Out where?”

“Just someone. At Langley's.”

“Until one in the fucking morning? Try harder, boy!”

“Dad, I'm sorry.” A little sob escaped Casey's throat. If he succeeded in pretending to have a perfectly guilty conscience, his chances to get away with only a lecture were high. He made another sob, hanging his head, avoiding eye contact. “I know I did wrong, but I just—I forgot the time. I was having so much fun and I forgot the time. I am very sorry, dad. It will never happen again.”

“Damned right. It won't.”

~ ~ ~

“Hey, Casey.”

“Zeke? Jesus, do you know what time it is?”

“About five, I guess?”

“About five,” Casey confirmed. He sat up in his bed, wiping the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “What makes you call at such an ungodly time?”

“Dunno,” Zeke replied. “Maybe I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Huh?”

Zeke laughed this silvery laughter of his. “Or maybe I wanted to invite you to a party.”

“At five?”

“As good a time as any other. What do you say?”

“I say I'm grounded. For two weeks.” Casey avoided to add he also had a fading handprint across his face.

“Boo. Your old man really was mad at you.”

“He was.”

Casey heard the _zip_ of Zeke's lighter. He almost _smelled_ the smoke and had to grin about the ridiculous illusion.

“So,” Zeke continued after taking a drag, “there's this fabulous band performing at the Lobby next Saturday, and since I have a spare ticket I thought you might want to come.”

“Wait a second. The Lobby, Columbus?” Casey was wide awake with excitement all of a sudden, and he almost forgot to keep his voice low. “Fucking _Columbus_?”

“Yep. What else?”

“Oh.”

“Oh what?”

The rush of excitement vanished as quickly as it had overcome him. Casey pulled a face. “I can't come, Zeke.”

“Don't you want to?”

“Fuck, yes, I _do_. But I _can't_.”

“Sneak out.”

“Even if I managed . . . I'm not of age yet.”

“Don't worry about that. It's all set.”

Casey took a deep breath.

~ ~ ~

Monday at school was terrible. Casey felt tired and worn out, although he had slept almost ten hours straight. Maybe he had caught a cold. Whatever the cause, he dragged himself from class to class, until at lunch break, he could barely keep his eyes open. He yawned repeatedly, not even bothering to cover his mouth. The tiniest movement exhausted him.

“You look like a run-over possum in the ditch.”

“Thanks, Del,” Casey mumbled in reply.

Delilah sat down beside him. Her gaze flew from his face to his hardly touched plate. “You gotta eat. You're too skinny anyway.”

“Leave me alone.”

“In your dreams.”

Casey raised his brows. “ _You're_ not eating.”

“Oh, spare me that discussion. We had it often enough.”

“Had what?” Marybeth, accompanied by the ever-so-happy-together Stokes and Stan, joined their table.

“Casey won't eat,” Delilah explained.

“Oh, but he should!”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Doesn't matter,” Stan jumped in. “As my mom always uses to say . . .” He interrupted himself, frowning, then he went on with special cheerfulness in his voice. “Anyway. Don't make us force-feed you, buddy.”

Casey rolled his eyes and yawned once more. It was all too much. He didn't care that his friends meant well; he wanted them to just disappear.

“Are you okay?” Stokely inquired with honest concern. “You look sorta sick. So pale. Maybe you should see Nurse Harper.”

“I'm fine, okay? I'm fucking fine! Why don't you all mind your own business?”

The group watched, speechless, as Casey stormed out of the cafeteria.

“Well. Severe case of PMS, if you ask me” Delilah said dryly, and they all chuckled.

All but Stokely. She looked down on her own plate, seriously astounded by the very unusual behavior.

~ ~ ~

After his outburst, Casey skipped the rest of his classes, going straight home. He dumped his bag at the staircase, proceeded to the kitchen, and there he found the note, neatly written in his father's accurate hand.

_Grandma had a stroke. Do not worry, she is okay now, but I had to go see her. I left you some money in the silverware drawer. You should get along all right until I return._

_Don't forget you're still grounded._

Casey read the note twice before he tore it into tiny little pieces, scattering them across the floor. Then, he picked up the phone and dialed Zeke's number.

 

 

~ ~ ~ end of part one ~ ~ ~


End file.
